Looking back, it was almost as if he were challenging Mother Nature to a duel.
What I mistook for a charming quirk of his was nothing more than arrogance in disguise.
A sprinkle of rain pats softly and rustles through the leaves overhead before beading along cars and making its way to the sidewalk.
Trotting ahead, I duck inside the bar to get a drink and wait for the weather to pass.
I make it inside without getting terribly soaked, snag an empty spot, and order a four-dollar cocktail off the Tuesday-night-specials menu—a bottom-shelf whiskey-apple-cranberry concoction.
One sip later, I’m transported back to the night I first met Donovan in Minneapolis. It was a Tuesday afternoon in late June, and the skies were a sickly shade of blue green. Weather sirens wailed in nearly every suburb surrounding Minneapolis thanks to torrential winds. All flights at MSP were grounded, and the airline put me up in the Marriott across the street. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, I decided to kill my time in the lobby bar.
I was on my second drink of the evening—another whiskey-apple-cranberry invention—when a striking auburn-haired gentleman in a navy three-piece suit took the empty seat beside me. He placed his cell phone and hotel key on the bar, ordered an old-fashioned, and made a comment to the bartender that it looked like he wouldn’t be getting into Chicago anytime soon.
“Flight 324? Into O’Hare?” I interjected out of boredom.
He angled himself toward me as I took a sip, and I almost choked when I caught myself lost in his imperious gaze. In that moment, I couldn’t tell if the skies were green, blue, pink, or purple, because all the color was in his eyes.
We spent the hours that followed glued to our barstools, flirting and drinking and small-talking our way into one another’s world. He was a social media manager for a Fortune 500 corporation—but his dream was to be a writer. He was in the midst of querying agents in New York with the hopes that one of his passion projects might one day take flight. He loved classical music and Rat Pack jazz, was currently restoring a vintage Aston Martin DB6 Volante. His guilty pleasures were Cameron Crowe films, Mexican chocolate, and sleeping in. And his five-year plan included restoring his childhood home and getting a dog.
I’d never met anyone like him in my life—and in the span of a single evening, I was certain he was the one I was going to marry. I was also growing drunker by the minute. But when you know, you know—sober or not.
Everything about him serenaded my soul in a way I’d never experienced before. His laugh? It gave me life. The scent of his expensive cologne? Intoxicating. Unspoken confidence undulated off him in waves. Even the cadence of his words and his extensive vocabulary sent an electric thrill down my spine. I counted over a dozen beautiful women sauntering past us over the course of the night, each of them stealing glimpses at the gorgeous man chatting me up. But he never took his eyes off me. Not once. Not for a second.
By last call, we were equal parts uninhibited and enamored.
He invited me to his room for one more drink . . .
I couldn’t say no.
My head, my heart, my soul, and my body were all screaming in unison for me to go with him.
He paid both tabs in cash and wasted no time leading me to the elevator, his hand on the small of my back. The doors weren’t halfway closed before he stole a kiss that catapulted my stomach to the floor . . . his hands in my hair, his tongue grazing mine . . . his commanding presence flooding my senses.
We barely made it to his room with all our clothes on, and I spent the entirety of the night tangled in his sheets. By the time the sun peeked through the blackout curtains, I’d lost track of how many orgasms I’d been gifted by Donovan’s golden touch.
Exhausted, dehydrated, and running on sheer adrenaline, I clung to every millisecond of every minute with this man, going so far as to watch him sleep. Though truth be told, I was only trying to take a mental picture to remember him by. Half of me figured it was a one-night stand. The other half of me prayed to God it was the beginning of a beautiful love story. While he slept soundly, I scribbled my number on a pad of hotel notepaper on his desk, quietly dressed, then headed to my own room to grab a shower and get ready to fly home.
With every silent hour that passed, my hope grew thinner, and I grew more convinced that the connection we had was nothing more than wishful thinking on my end. While I’ve entertained my fair share of guys pretending to be interested for the sake of a hookup, this one was different.
He was different.
Then again, my grandmother once told me we’re always seeing what we want to see, even if we don’t realize it. Reality is subjective, not concrete. Two people can be sharing the exact same experience and attach completely different meanings.
I was boarding my three o’clock flight home that afternoon when a flight attendant approached me and asked if I’d like a spot in first class.
The woman beside me huffed, making a comment under her breath and giving me side-eye. But I accepted the offer, gathered my things, and followed the attendant to the front of the plane.
“We don’t normally do this,” she said as we walked, “but we’ve had a special request.”
I bit my tongue and quieted my confusion as she led me through the divider curtain, past a row of wide leather chairs. The scent of champagne and high-priced perfume filled my lungs as I gazed down each aisle. I was three rows in when I spotted the auburn-haired Adonis from the night before.
Donovan greeted me with a smile that sent me.
And I couldn’t even say where I went—only that my feet were surely off the ground.
“Anneliese,” he said, motioning to the open seat beside him. His full lips arched into the sort of smile that made my insides somersault. “Hope you don’t mind the upgrade.”
We were inseparable from that moment on.
I sip my drink again, savoring it as if it could possibly transport me back to that night. Unfortunately, I’m still here in Arcadia Grove, living out one side of what should have been our happily ever after.
Thunder rattles the bar windows as rain pelts the glass. A young couple dashes through the front door, drenched and laughing. They cozy up in a corner booth, shrugging off their wet jackets. She wrings out her hair. He dries his hands on a stack of napkins. They order two beers, and he steals a kiss. I miss those ignorantly blissful moments—when nothing (and no one) else mattered. When everything else was background noise.
There are times I wonder what it’ll be like with someone new someday . . . if I’ll be able to fully fall for another person the way I fell for him or if I’ll be questioning everything, holding back, and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Donovan didn’t just steal my money; he stole my faith in love.
“You’ve barely touched your drink.” The bartender checks on me. “Can I make you something else?”
I perk up. “No, no. The drink is fine. I’m just savoring it.”
It may be strange, but I want to remember. I need a hit of the sweetness to remind me of the bitter because some days I forget. Every once in a while, there are little pockets of the day when I find myself wistful, nostalgic for the good times.
Reminiscing like this helps me remember the good times were all for show.
“You sure?” He arches a brow like he doesn’t buy it.
No one savors cheap whiskey.